Let us go back a couple of hours and see what has been engaging Miss Arkwright and Lionel since their interview with Tony. They are still reclining in the hammock-chair, which they have been obliged to move, more than once, retreating before the all-conquering sun. They have talked for a space, but nothing of their conversation is worthy of a recorder's pen, and at last they have fallen silent, each occupied with busy musings. Lionel, of course, has had plenty to think about since the early telegram--new schemes to mature, fresh hopes to be weighed, old difficulties to brush aside or evade. Winifred's silence, too, is not extraordinary. Apart from her secret history--and she must have a secret, to be sure, if not a dozen--there is matter for consideration in her present _milieu_. Putting aside the trivial incident of the five-days'-old attack (and an intriguer can not spend much time on trifles, especially when they end happily), there is the problem of Tony to be pondered over. But, at the worst, he can only be looked on as a light-hearted dilettante, whose greatest misfortune is the curse of wealth. Such, at least, is Winifred's shrewd guess, and we know how near the mark the arrow has fallen. Then, Lionel ... what shall she do with him? Is it better to keep him with her longer, a cheerful gentleman who seems quite content to waste his time in her company, despite the chilling fact that he appears equally content to chaff their prisoner if she is busy in the house? Or shall she send him away? Winifred stole a glance at Lionel, pondering with knit brows, and permitted herself a smile that was unseen by him. Was she thinking of his pursuit in the garden, the hurled water-jug, or the exposure of Mizzi? Perhaps the latter; for the smile was followed by a delectable frown that did not mar the poetry of her face. It seemed, indeed, to act but as a foil, enhancing the smile that followed again like a victor,--a victor that has retreated, only to return. As she wondered and smiled, Forbes came across the lawn and handed the morning's letters on a tray. The post had just come in. "Three for me," said Winifred, picking up the letters. "And one for you." Lionel took it with a lazy gratitude. What had letters to do with him this heavenly morning, when he had had a wire to say that his mistress was free? How much better to pursue the current of his thoughts and try to make up his mind, once and for all, whether he loved Beatrice enough to ask her to marry him! Without glancing at the postmark or handwriting he murmured, "Excuse me!" and tore open the flap. The first few sentences made him sit bolt upright in his chair. "Good heavens!" he murmured, reading hastily on. His face grew dark, and the jaw set ominously the more he read. Winifred, watching him with a stealthy interest, had not yet opened her budget. "I hope it is no bad news?" she said with a soft sympathy.